by Anne Stuart
Slowly, imperceptibly, Ferris backed away. Kate would interrupt them in another moment or two. Even if she wasn’t sure she could trust one of Blackheart’s associates, she knew that between the two of them the jewels would be safe. There was nothing to worry about. Olivia came from a family as old as the San Francisco hills, and the Summers fortune was equally legendary. She had no need to filch the Von Emmerling emeralds. As well suspect Regina Merriam of trying to run off with them.
By the time Ferris reached the stairs she could hear the voices from the bedroom, low, slightly embarrassed voices. There would be no problem.
THE TWO WOMEN watched Trace Walker leave the room, an embarrassed angle to his shoulders. She’d played it well, Olivia thought. Trace was so embarrassed at having been caught in such a compromising position that he’d put the responsibility of the emeralds low on his list of priorities. He hadn’t liked the expression on Kate’s face one tiny bit. As she’d suspected, there was something more there than poor little Kate recognized. Her grand passion might not be as unrequited as she supposed. But fortunately for Olivia, neither Kate nor Trace had any inkling of the other’s feelings.
Kate was glaring at her, her lower lip thrust out unattractively, her eyes wide and angry. Really, the whole thing was laughable.
“Don’t glare at me, Kate, darling,” Olivia said easily, unfastening the clasp on the phony emeralds. “Have you got the real jewels?”
Chapter Fourteen
HER APARTMENT was still and silent as she let herself in. Phillip waited by her door, a pleased smile on his tired, handsome face. “You’re dead on your feet,” he observed kindly. “I won’t come in.”
She hadn’t invited him in, but perversely she was annoyed. “I probably won’t be able to sleep anyway.”
“Sure you will. It’s almost four in the morning. Just pour yourself a glass of Dubonnet and you’ll be dead to the world,” he assured her, and immediately Ferris was determined to stay awake till dawn. “I was glad to see that you and Patrick managed to get along,” he added. “They did a great job, don’t you think?”
“I suppose so. No one stole the emeralds, and that’s the main thing.” It had been with mixed emotions that she had watched the assembled staff of Blackheart, Inc., drive off with the beautiful gems safe in their possession. Now that it was all over, the Von Emmerling emeralds had suddenly taken on an added luster. She hadn’t liked them much when she first saw them, but now that the responsibility was gone she found they were much prettier and more delicate than she’d first thought.
Blackheart must have lost his touch, though. He’d barely given them a cursory glance as he’d shoved the velvet cases into a briefcase that resembled something out of a James Bond movie. Ferris had little doubt that if some unauthorized person tried to open it, it would shoot poison darts at the very least. And he’d driven away from her, out of her life, without a backward glance.
“You’ll have to admit that Patrick isn’t so bad,” Phillip persisted.
Ferris looked up at him then, suddenly curious. “He was no major problem. Why are you so concerned, Phillip?”
Phillip was a consummate politician. Even when he was avoiding a direct answer, he looked you straight in the eye. But this time he made no effort to avoid it. “Something my mother said,” he replied lightly.
“She told you Blackheart and I were involved?” Ferris questioned, horrified that they had been so obvious, horrified that Regina Merriam would have said something to her son.
“Exactly the opposite. Apparently you two fight like cats and dogs. I’ve never known you not to get along with someone, no matter how offensive you find them. My mother was concerned, and so was I. You know how much Mother adores you. She’s always considered you far too good for me. She wants what’s best for you—my interests come second.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Phillip, your mother worships you.”
He grinned, that engaging grin that had melted the hearts of women from eight months to eighty. “Of course she does. How could she help it? But that doesn’t mean she’ll sacrifice your happiness for my well-being. Think about it, Ferris.”
“Think about what?” she said irritably. “I don’t happen to get along with Patrick Blackheart. I don’t approve of him—does that make it a federal crime?”
“You’ve got a bleeding heart, Ferris. You approve of ax murderers when they’re properly repentant. There’s something else, and—”
“Phillip, I think you’re the one who’s overtired,” she interrupted ruthlessly. “You’re making a mountain out of a molehill. If you want to talk about this, in depth, we can do so tomorrow when I’ve had more rest. All right?”
He gave her his charming, rueful smile. “I’d like that, darling, I really would. But I’ve got to be in Santa Cruz for the next three days, and then Sacramento, and then—”
“Never mind. I’ll be coming back to work for you now that the Puffin Ball is finished.” Something in his expression alerted her. “Won’t I, Phillip?”
“Yes,” he allowed. “Though perhaps not in the same capacity. But we can always—”
“Why not? I like being administrative assistant.” Her voice was getting a little shrill, and she quickly toned it down.
“Of course you do,” he said soothingly. “And I love having you there—there’s no one I count on more. But Jack Reginald has a son in need of a job, and—”
“And Jack Reginald is making substantial contributions to your upcoming campaign,” Ferris said lightly.
“You understand the political facts of life as well as anyone, Ferris. You scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours, and that sort of thing.”
“I understand completely,” she said, her voice calm and accepting. “And you’re right, I am dead tired. Why don’t you give me a call this week when you have a chance, and we can work something out?”
“I’ll call you Sunday at—”
“I won’t be in Sunday,” she broke in. “I have other plans.”
“When will you be in, then?” he managed to look both hurt and forgiving at the same time. A talented man, was Phillip Merriam, she mused.
“I don’t know. You’ll just have to keep trying till you get me.”
He stood there, still in the doorway, half in her apartment, half out, half in her life, half out, and Ferris fingered her diamond ring, considering her options. She’d never been a fool, and practicality told her not to make a move she might later regret. Even though deep in her heart of hearts she knew that move would have to be made, and soon, tonight was not the night. She left the ring in place. For now.
“Well,” he said finally, his usual urbanity wiping out his temporary frustration. “Well. You get some sleep, then, darling. I’ll somehow manage to squeeze a few days out toward the end of the week, or maybe early next week, and we’ll go someplace. How does that sound?”
“Just fine.”
“Do have a glass of Dubonnet. It will help you relax.”
She looked up quite fearlessly into his clear blue eyes. “I,” she said, “don’t like Dubonnet.”
“Well,” he said. “Well. Good night, then.” He still seemed uncharacteristically uncertain, and Ferris felt a moment’s sympathy. Reaching up on her toes, she kissed that sweet-smelling, smooth-shaven cheek. And there was no way she could fool herself into thinking it wasn’t good-bye.
“Good night, Phillip.”
His footsteps clattered down the two flights of stairs. She stood there at the open door for a long moment, then shut it after the disappearing sound of his departure. She looked at the three locks for a moment, reached for them, then dropped her hand, shrugging. Nothing would keep Blackheart out if he wanted to get in. Not that he would, ever again. It had been a dangerous few days, and part of her had found it irresistibly attractive, playing with fire. But it was safely over now, and sh
e could go back to living her life.
Blackie had no intention of spending the fogbound night in her apartment. She met his look of haughty demand with an affectionate scratch behind the ears, and then he was out on her terrace and gone a moment later. For a moment she considered leaving the door open a crack. It was cool—about fifty degrees outside—but the air was refreshing to her flushed cheeks. She could always huddle under a blanket for warmth.
She kicked off her heels and let her bare feet sink into the carpet. Phillip was right; Phillip was always right. What was she going to do without him telling her what she needed? She did need her bed, and she needed a drink to take the edge off the nervous energy that was still sparking through her. Whenever she closed her eyes she could see Blackheart’s eyes, watching her, following her, wanting her? Damn, but he gave up easily.
She must be more tired than she thought, to have regretted his sudden lack of interest. She trailed out into the kitchen, poured herself a small glass of Drambuie and wandered back into the darkened living room. Without bothering to turn on the lights, she curled up on the sofa. Like a fool she’d left the Brie out when she’d taken off with Trace and Blackheart hours earlier, and Blackie had made a hearty meal of most of it. He’d even been piggy enough to sample a few crackers, but obviously found them less than entrancing.
Reaching forward, Ferris took a non-felined cracker and bit into it, following it with a sip of the sweet, rich Drambuie. A trip to her sister Cecilia’s might be a good idea. Cecilia could be counted on for her good sense, her warmth and her marvelous ability to give a person space. A week spent at her ramshackle farmhouse, surrounded by half a dozen nieces and nephews in all shapes and sizes, with the soothing example of Cecilia’s and Joe’s love for each other and their numerous offspring, and she should be able to view her life with a better sense of reality.
The sound of the buzzer startled her out of her pleasant reverie. Leaning back she stared at her blank white door for a long moment. Of course it could be Phillip, come back to have his wicked way with her. He’d looked more than faintly disgruntled when he’d left, maybe he thought it was time to show her who was boss. This time she would give him his ring.
Or maybe it was the police, come to tell her that Blackheart, Inc., had never showed up at the Mark Hopkins suite of the Honorable Miss Smythe-Davies and was now wanted for grand larceny.
Or maybe it was Blackheart himself, come to tell her he loved her and renew that whimsical offer of marriage. No, that was the one person it wouldn’t be. He wouldn’t bother to ring the bell, he’d just come right in.
The bell rang again, interrupting her lazy thoughts. Whoever it was, she wasn’t about to get up from her comfortable perch on the love seat. If she could help it, she wasn’t going to stand on her feet for twenty-four hours. She could crawl into her bed.
One more ring. She considered it, then shrugged. If it was a rapist—ax murderer, he would doubtless find a way to get in anyway. Right now she really didn’t give a damn. “Come in,” she called in a throaty voice. “It’s open.” And she took another sip of her Drambuie.
There was a long pause on the other side of the door, and then it opened. And Blackheart stood there, a package in one hand, a furious expression on his face.
IT HAD BEEN A struggle for him, all night long. Blackheart wasn’t used to being consumed by jealousy, he wasn’t used to giving a damn. He wasn’t so egocentric that he had to have every woman who didn’t want him. When he was turned down, as every man was now and then, he usually shrugged his shoulders and looked further. But the more Francesca Berdahofski dodged, feinted, refused, insulted, fought, and struggled, the more determined he became.
He still couldn’t figure out why he’d said that to her on the wide, busy staircase. Just to see the shock widen her eyes? Except that he’d been even more shocked. He’d never proposed to a woman in his life, never even been tempted. Yet the moment the words were out of his mouth, he hadn’t wanted to recall them. In fact, he’d wanted to throw the troublesome wench over his shoulder like something out of an Errol Flynn movie and carry her out of that house, and be damned to her charming senator and her idiotic pretensions.
Phillip Merriam hadn’t made things any easier. He’d been so damned decent, so revoltingly good-fellowship that Blackheart really had been tempted to rip out his tongue. If Blackheart was anywhere near the decent human being he tried to be, he would have then and there renounced his designs on Francesca Berdahofski’s luscious body. But decency was in short supply nowadays. He could keep his hands off the Von Emmerling emeralds, but he couldn’t keep his hands off Francesca.
He’d left Kate and Trace at the Mark Hopkins. Neither of them was looking particularly happy, but he racked that up to their tangled relationship. If he were the meddling kind, he’d drop a hint in Trace’s inattentive ear. But then, maybe Trace knew, and figured that ignoring it was the kindest way to deal with Kate’s languishing glances. Maybe.
He’d swung by his apartment, changing out of that damned monkey suit. He hated full dress nowadays. For so long it had been his working costume. He couldn’t put on a tuxedo without remembering other nights, long ago, and his hands would start sweating.
He still hadn’t decided how big a fool he was being. He’d probably get to Francesca’s ridiculous little apartment and find Phillip Merriam in that oversize bed. And then what would he do? Slink away into the fog like a beaten dog? Or maybe rip out Phillip’s tongue.
Tonight wasn’t a night for a touch of B and E, just on the off chance that the good senator had finally chosen to initiate his virgin bride. He took the two flights of steps slowly, silently, unaccountably nervous. Would she be asleep already? Would she glare at him out of those green eyes? Was he being ridiculously sentimental? Maybe he should turn around, give it a few days.
Damn, he was acting like an adolescent boy on his first date. His hands were sweating for sure now, and shaking just a tiny bit as he reached for the bell. There was no way he could wait any longer. Push had come to shove, and he wasn’t going to sleep until he knew that she was irrevocably in love with the good senator. Not that he could blame her. Any woman with good sense would be. The man was handsome, rich, charming, friendly, and possessed of a great mother. What did a man with a past like John Patrick Blackheart have to offer in comparison? As he rang the bell again, the box beneath his arm suddenly felt very heavy. Where the hell was she?
BLACKHEART HAD changed his clothes, Ferris noticed. He was wearing jeans again, and his boots, and the black, body-hugging turtleneck beneath a corduroy jacket. She had never liked turtleneck shirts on men, but on Blackheart the effect was absolutely demoralizing. She wondered what he was angry about now.
“Why didn’t you lock your door?” he demanded crossly, shutting the heavy door behind him and snapping each lock, including the chain. “Don’t you realize there are dangerous criminals out there, waiting to prey on people like you?”
“It didn’t seem worth the trouble. In the past four years the only person who’s broken into the place has been you. And I knew those locks wouldn’t keep you out.”
“Certainly not these flimsy ones,” he scoffed. “A stoned-out junkie with a credit card could get through those locks.”
“Why would a stoned-out junkie have a credit card?” Ferris inquired prosaically.
“That’s beside the point. Where’s the good senator?” He moved toward her then, with his usual feline grace.
“Not here. What do you want, Blackheart? I thought we were finished with our dealings. Did the emeralds get safely back to Miss Smythe-Davies?”
“I wouldn’t be here if they didn’t.”
“No, you wouldn’t,” she mused. “What’s in the box?”
Blackheart pulled it out from under his arm, looking at it as if he’d never seen it before. “A present for you.”
“From whom?”
&n
bsp; “From me, of course. Don’t just recline there like Cleopatra waiting for an asp,” he snapped. He tossed the box to her, and she caught it expertly. “Open it.”
She held it in her hand, weighing it, and her green eyes were extremely wary. “What is it? A time bomb? I don’t hear any ticking.”
“I sent the time bomb to the senator,” he said. “May I have a drink? It’s been a long night.”
“Help yourself.” She still didn’t move, just stared down at the rectangular box. “My feet hurt too much to get up.”
A moment later he was back, a glass of whisky in one hand, and he tossed his jacket across a chair before sitting down beside her, at the opposite end of the love seat. She had to pull her feet up, and she eyed him with a mixture of suspicion and wariness. If she didn’t know better she’d say he was nervous. Maybe it was a time bomb. Or a rattlesnake. She shook the box again, but only a quiet thud rewarded her straining ears.
“It won’t bite, Francesca,” he said quietly. “Consider it a farewell present. Open it.”
“You going somewhere?” she inquired in a desultory voice as she pulled at the wrappings.
“I hadn’t planned to. What about you? Have you and the good senator set a date yet?” He took a sip of his drink, and his hand shook slightly. He was nervous, Ferris thought with amazement.
The brown paper came off, and the box underneath it read Ramon’s. She looked up at him. “Ramon’s what?” she queried lightly, mystified.
“Open it,” he said again.
It was a pair of red shoes. The most beautiful red shoes she’d ever seen, made of shiny, metallic crimson, with high stacked heels, diamond buckles and no toes. There were little metal taps on the heel and toe, and she turned to look at Blackheart, her face very still.
He cleared his throat. “The taps are for when you dance. You’re supposed to click them against the floor, and—”
“I know what the taps are for.” Her voice was very quiet in the darkened room. “Why?”